


In Search of a Heartbeat

by glennjaminhow



Category: Mindhunter (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Holden has a big ass mental breakdown, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, Post-Season/Series 01, References to Depression, Suicide Attempt, angst on top of more angst, excuse me while I project, this is dark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-06-29 09:09:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19826974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glennjaminhow/pseuds/glennjaminhow
Summary: Holden’s breakdown seeps into every aspect of his life; Holden loses himself.





	1. I

**I. Snapped**

Rain pelts against the windows.

Holden tries to listen for a pattern, to dissect a reason for abnormal irregularity, but there isn’t one. Instead, there’s the unsteady thump of his heart throbbing in his ears. He watches a grey autumn storm sweep through this part of California and wonders if it’ll snow soon. Not here, not in Vacaville, but back home in Virginia. Maybe it’ll snow. Maybe the snow will freeze over and cover up all the shit he dragged his entire life through the last several months.

His mother always told him he thinks too much. He spends too much time analyzing every situation, plotting a plan of attack for the simplest things, like what to wear the next day or what he should eat for dinner. The times he didn’t overthink, he got a cold after walking home from school during a thunderstorm without a hooded jacket or he got food poisoning because he didn’t quadruple check the milk’s expiration date. But now? Now is different. Now he’s an adult, and he has to answer for his mistakes. Not like he didn’t answer for them before. Dad made him answer plenty, but everything is so much harder at 29 than it is at 9.

One thing he knows for sure: He’s an idiot.

Cocky. Selfish. Manipulative. Immature.

The recipe for one fucked up individual with an MO so fierce it consumed his life.

He’s an asshole. He pushed away Debbie. Broke up with her like it was a business proposal. Bill. Probably won’t look him in the eye ever again. Wendy. Enflamed her trust, and now she’ll think he’s worthless. He most likely doesn’t have a job anymore. Shepard will crucify him. OPR will place his withered corpse on a mantel, a prime example of exactly what not to do when given an opportunity to do something really important, something that will impact science forever.

Holden wanted to do good. He wanted to make a difference. He wanted to do his work and conquer it and be the best at profiling he could be. He wanted to learn and rule and captivate an audience unworthy of listening to the profound nature of his discussions.

He wanted… He wanted…

It doesn’t matter. He can’t articulate it anyway.

The IV stings his left hand. He doesn’t like IVs. Once, when he was a brick agent, he overworked himself so much that he collapsed on the job in the middle of an ongoing pursuit. He crumpled like a wad of paper tossed in the trashcan. He was admitted to the hospital. He was 24.

When he was 24, he had panic attacks. Sure, he had them all the time. He’s had them since he was a kid. His father used to say Holden wasn’t cut out for this life, that the world will eat him alive, and Dad was right. He was doomed from the start. He isn’t normal. He’ll never be normal.

But today, with Ed Kemper, he felt something inside of him shrivel up and snap. His head was above water, just barely, but the rest of him was drowning. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe, and the floor was cold against his skin, and it ate him alive, swallowed him whole, chewed up his heart and spit it out on the wall.

He was closed in. Trapped. Nowhere to run. And he keeps imagining Ed Kemper peeking out into the hallway where Holden was drowning, a smirk on his face and eyes dark.

He can’t… This isn’t… It isn’t…

His heart picks up pace. Thump thump thump. Thump thump thump. Thump thump thump it doesn’t matter nothing is important he fucked everything up he fucked it up he’s all alone and no one’s here and there’s an IV in his hand and his head hurts he can’t stop hearing Ed’s voice echoing off like a rifle in his brain his heart’s made of cobwebs and dust and it’s all for nothing all of this was for nothing he ruined himself he ruined his life for nothing

Bill was right Debbie was right Wendy was right Shepard was right OPR was right everyone could see it everyone could see the path he was heading down but not him he’s an idiot arrogant full of himself thinking he knows everything he can talk with the best of the psychopaths in the continental US and hold his own show them he’s one of them show them he can hack it show them there’s nothing missing inside of him just a hole where his humanity once was

His cheeks are wet really wet he’s drowning again but this time it’ll be in his own tears he’ll have an unmarked grave it’s grey and cracked and weathered from the elements no name he’s nameless not even his mother will come to the funeral that doesn’t exist he shouldn’t have done this he’s pathetic he shouldn’t have done this what was he thinking he knows he isn’t cut out for this world he’s been told that his entire life he thought he defied the odds when he went into the FBI he was supposed to be brilliant he was supposed to change things he was supposed to make a name for himself because no one understood and no one listened enough to learn his name

“Oh, hey, what’s the matter?” he hears. His ears still work, but his eyes are foggy, and he can’t see past blond hair. “Calm down, honey. You’re okay. You’re safe.”

There’s something warm tracing through his veins. His brain immediately stalls. He doesn’t wipe the tears from his eyes.

Rain pelts against the windows.

He watches a grey autumn storm sweep through this part of California and wonders if it’ll snow soon. Not here, not in Vacaville, but back home in Virginia. Maybe it’ll snow.

* * *

**II. Broken**

Holden pretends to be asleep when Bill shows up.

The doctor is terrible when it comes to confidentiality and expels what Holden’s holding back from himself in less than two minutes.

Exhaustion. Malnutrition. Dehydration. Heart palpations. Panic attacks.

He’s tired. He isn’t hungry. He isn’t thirsty. He’s trying to control his heartbeat. He’s been having panic attacks. He isn’t sure what the big deal is, why Bill came all the way out here just for this, why he can’t go home already. It isn’t a big deal. This isn’t a big deal. Ed Kemper’s two floors down, and Holden’s here, and that isn’t okay. That’s the big deal.

But he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t flinch, doesn’t breathe for a long time even though he can’t breathe out his nose. He stays curled up on his side, mindful of the IV, and tunes out mindless conversation. It’s still raining outside. Holden isn’t sure it’ll ever stop.

Eventually, the doctor leaves, and Bill settles down in a chair across from Holden. His legs are crossed. He flips through a magazine.

Bill shouldn’t have flown out here for this. Holden did it to himself. Bill tried to warn him. Everyone tried to warn him, but he didn’t listen. He rarely does. His mom always scolded him about being too righteous, about being in his own head for so much and for so long that his perspective on the world becomes skewed, crooked, morphed into something that it isn’t. She would brush the hair off his forehead and tell him to name five things he saw, three things he smelled, one thing he heard. Name five animals that start with the letter A. Name his top three favorite candies. Name this. Name that. Just to keep him present.

But the problem with that is it’s so hard to stay here. He doesn’t want to be here. He doesn’t want to live in the moment. There’s nothing here, and the moments drag on like centuries, and he wants to go home. He doesn’t want to talk, and he doesn’t want to be a spectacle under a microscope. He fucking fucked up. He’s going to pay for it the rest of his life. No one trusts him. No one will want to work with him. He’s already going to start applying to some book stores and libraries when he gets out of here. He loves books. He thinks he can handle books.

“I know you’re awake, kid,” Bill says.

Holden’s eyes snap open. He clears his throat. He tries to say something, to say anything, but he clamps his mouth shut instead.

“You scared the shit outta me, you know that, right?”

Holden nods. He keeps staring out the window.

Hearing the words isn’t the same as processing them. He knows what Bill means. But he’s lying. Bill’s lying. Holden knows he’s just out here out of some sense of responsibility. His partner, or former partner by now, fucked up and visited a serial killer who thinks he’s his best friend. His former partner is in the hospital. His former partner didn’t listen, took everything and shoved it out the backdoor, repeatedly did what he told him not to. Bill called him on his shit, and now Bill fills partially responsible for what happened here, and he shouldn’t. This is Holden’s mess.

“Your hospitalization is doing you some favors. Shepard’s gonna have the OPR write your atrocious behavior off as stress-related.”

There it is. Atrocious behavior. Aberrant behavior. Deviant behavior.

_“I gotta ask: What gave you the right to take eight ripe cunts out of the world? Some of them looked pretty good. You ever think you were depriving the rest of us? Eight hot pieces of ass. You think that’s fair?”_

Holden shudders. Stop. Stop thinking about it. Look outside. Think about anything, literally anything, else. This is him. This is who he is. This is the way he walks. This is the way he talks. He wanted this. He wanted this. He wanted this. He wanted this. He wanted this.

_“How the hell did you even fuck eight women the same night?”_

There’s acid on his tongue. He’s gotta… He’s gotta… He leans over the side of the bed and expels the sickness inside of him. If he looks closely enough, he can see the humanity spewed up in chunks. There is he. He’s right there.

“Don’t worry about it, Holden. I’ll get someone to clean it u–”

The sobs rupture out of him, alien and inhumane, like hunks of volcanic rock.

Choking to death on his own spit he can’t breathe he tries to count tries to distract himself tries to keep himself here because here is better than there tries to do anything to think of anything to do anything to make it stop just make it stop it’s gotta stop but his stream of consciousness lapses and relapses he wishes he were dead he’s wished it before tried to make himself die before but this is probably the first time he means it for sure 110% percent he should’ve slit his wrists harder he should’ve taken more pills he should’ve tied the fucking knot right he should’ve not thrown up he should’ve not screamed he should’ve tried again he should’ve done it he could’ve done it would’ve been easy so easy to cut a little deeper take a little more pills tie a little more knots it he could’ve been nothing more than a rotting body in the ground this is good this is good just keep thinking just do something just do anything because it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts and he wants it to stop nothing ever stops his brain doesn’t stop and his body doesn’t stop and this won’t fucking stop why won’t it stop stop stop stop stop stop

_“It just wasn’t their night.”_

* * *

**III. Splintered**

He gets released from the hospital.

The doctor says he doesn’t have, by any means, a clean bill of health, but he’s well enough to take care of himself at home. Holden is thankful for that. Between the constant beeping of monitors, the scratchy sheets, the paper-thin blankets, the groans from other patients nearby, and the only marginally edible food, he’s gotten little sleep in the three nights he’s been here.

He has to gain back the weight he lost. Start exercising regularly again. Get enough rest. Drink more water. Monitor his ‘condition,’ namely the irregular heartbeat, for any signs of change. Take the proper amount of Valium prescribed to him daily. The whole spiel is disorienting and uninteresting. Holden just wants to curl up on his couch under a quilt and fall asleep.

Except he’s scared to sleep.

He’s been prone to nightmares his entire life. He turns shadowy shapes into monsters that will eat his brains. He turns rustling next door into an intruder, male and in his late 40s, with a knife. He turns his slippers peeking out from under the bed into hands that grab his ankles and slice his Achilles tendon. When he was a kid, his father would whip him for screaming in the middle of the night, so he just kind of stopped sleeping. It’s been like this for as long as he can remember.

Napping is the most he accomplishes. A three hour nap is all he needs to function. He’s too wound up to do much more than that.

Which is why it surprises him when he dozes off on the plane ride back home. Planes are notoriously noisy and turbulent, two qualities that are less than ideal for naps, but Holden’s head hurts and staring out the window is beginning to make him nauseous. Bill’s next to him reading through a case file Holden doesn’t ask about. He lets his eyes droop closed.

Kemper is there, saddled with darkness and riddled with rage. Holden’s in a yard by a flower bed. Only there aren’t any roses or petunias or daffodils growing in the brown, wet soil. He sees three fingers sticking up, planted there purposely, with reason. The reason is… Kemper points down at the ground; Holden looks. A head. There a head in between his bare feet. A head in between his bare feet that… that isn’t real this isn’t real none of this can be real only Kemper walks toward him now and his hands wrap around Holden’s neck and muscles tear and limbs shatter and he’s writhing on the ground with his heart outside his body sitting there beating pumping thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump

“You wanted this,” Kemper says. Holden can’t see him. He isn’t there. “You wanted this.”

His eyes snap open, and he grips onto his button up in tufts. Stop okay just breathe just breathe this shouldn’t be so hard it shouldn’t be so hard to sit here on an airplane and not panic don’t panic don’t think don’t panic don’t think but he’s thinking he’s thinking a lot about Kemper’s embrace about the car accident he and Bill were in about eight ripe cunts about breaking up with Debbie about dying about breathing he should breathe he should breathe he should breathe

“Holden, are you alright?” Bill asks.

Tears swelling in his eyes, Holden gives a watery smile. “I’m fine.”

“Really? Because you don’t seem fine,” Bill points out.

But he isn’t fine he isn’t fine this isn’t fine he’s pretty sure he’ll never be fine again.

He nods. “Planes just make me a little sick.”

“Since when? We’ve flown together a lot, you know.”

He can’t do this he can’t do this right now he knows Bill’s just trying to get to the bottom of his ‘atrocious behavior’ to pinpoint where and when his partner went absolutely insane but Holden can’t he doesn’t it just isn’t –

“You just got out of the hospital, kid,” Bill says. “You were pretty sick. I’m trying to make sure you’re actually okay now.”

Holden swallows the bile in his mouth. He really doesn’t feel well. His stomach swirls, and his head throbs, and the Valium isn’t helping. “I’m good, Bill. But I appreciate the concern.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Bill asserts.

Holden’s insides clench. He feels his heart plummet to his feet. He could cry right here and right now. He basically already is. “Do what?”

“Deflect. Act like you’re okay.”

Holden frowns. “But I am okay.”

It sounds more like a question than a factual statement.

Bill sighs. Holden bites his lip. “You had a nervous breakdown a few days ago, Holden,” Bill says. “Now, either you’re way tougher than you let on, which in that case we wouldn’t be having this conversation, or you’re struggling.”

Holden shakes his head. He runs his fingers through his hair. His arteries, veins, muscles, bones are in knots. He can’t do this. He can’t do this. He can’t do this. “I’ll be fine.”

“I think you should come stay with me, Nancy, and Brian for a while. You know, just til you’re on your feet.”

Holden scoffs. “I was on my feet earlier, Bill. You saw.”

“I saw you stumble and trip over your feet if that’s what you mean.”

“I’m tired, not incompetent.”

“Look, Holden, all I’m trying to say is –”

“No… I-I’m sorry, Bill. I understand what you’re saying, and I appreciate it, but I’ll be fine. I just need to get some sleep in my own bed, and then I’ll be good as new.”

Minus the two week suspension and the month of probation for his ‘atrocious behavior’ and the ex-girlfriend and the ruining of his career and the colleagues like Bill and Wendy who will never trust him again and the crippling loneliness that comes with being, well, alone and the nightmares and the fact that he won’t actually sleep in his own bed as previously stated.

God, he sounds like such a girl. Dad was right. He needs to grow a pair and stop complaining and, of course, stop fucking worrying about every little thing all the Goddamn time.

Things will be fine. It’ll be fine. He’ll be fine.

“If you say so,” Bill says. “But the offer still stands.”

“Thank you,” Holden whispers.

“You can always ask for help. No shame in that.”

Holden nods. He turns his attention to the clouds passing by outside.

* * *

**IV. Wrecked**

The moment he gets home, Holden showers.

Three days in the hospital is a lot of time for that smell to absorb into his skin. It’s a clean smell that is almost inexplicably dirty. It leaves the skin itching for real water, shampoo, soap, towels, as if the stuff the nurses give people at the hospital is fake.

Holden cranks the temperature as hot as it’ll go. The steaming water stings in the best way possible. It reminds him he’s still alive, that after everything he can still look forward to showers that take the edge off. He’s always used showering as a stress reliever. It’s like running to him. He runs and then he showers and somehow he feels great after, even if road school bores him or the cases mess up his reality. But he can’t run today. His head hurts, and he’s aching everywhere.

He doesn’t know how long he stays in there, but the water goes cold. He quickly finishes up and ignores that his hands shake as he dresses himself in the warmest sweater he owns and a pair of plaid pajama bottoms. He never wears socks to sleep, but his feet are frozen, and he can’t deal with how exposed he is, so he puts on the socks Mom knitted him for Christmas a few years ago. It doesn’t do much in the way of making him feel better.

So Holden turns on the TV and settles on the news. He lays down on the couch, curling his knees toward his chest and crossing his arms. The pillow smells like Debbie, like apples and sunshine. There’s a tingling in his stomach that won’t go away. He should call her. He should tell her he’s sorry. He screwed up. He takes things too far, and other people have to deal with him acting like a giant asshole. She probably doesn’t even want to hear from him anyway.

The news anchor talks about a series of murders at Florida State University’s Chi Omega sorority house. Margaret Bowman, 21, was bludgeoned to death with a piece of oak firewood and then garroted with a nylon stocking. Lisa Levy, 20, was beat unconscious. She was strangled. One of her nipples was torn off, and she had a bite mark on her left buttock. It was believed she was sexually assaulted with a hair mist bottle. Kathy Kleiner had a broken jaw. Karen Chandler had a broken jaw and concussion. Both survived the attack.

Holden wants to question the motive behind the murder. Does the perpetrator have a reason for committing such heinous acts? Does the perpetrator mimic other sequence – or serial – killers? Is that how he gained insight to go about committing these crimes?

But he also just… wants to know why human beings could do that to their own.

He thinks about Ed Kemper, about how there’s nothing behind his eyes.

_“It’s like standing next to a blackhole.”_

And Kemper thinks Holden is his friend. He thinks Holden is like him. He thinks Holden understands him. And how can Holden understand this? How can he understand what makes a man – or woman, but more presumably and statistically a man – kill innocent people? How can he even begin to fathom what goes on in the victims’ minds? Because that’s what this is really about. The killers don’t care about their victims, but these victims have families. Moms, dads, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins, friends. Some of these victims are so young, 21 or 22 and not much older. How can he empathize with this? How can he make sense of this?

Tears stream down his cheeks. He breathes. He needs to turn off the TV because the news anchor won’t stop talking about it, and he sees flashes of interviews of crying faces and sad eyes and the hurt, the anguish, the fear written plain as day on the people surrounding the event. He can’t… He can’t do this. He doesn’t want to be around this. He breathes. He breathes. But the tears are hot and fast. He can’t breathe. There’s a boulder on his chest and it’s so cold why is he so cold how come people can take lives without thinking about the families how can someone watch a life being drained and not wonder what lead them to this that’s his job he’s supposed to figure it out he just wants to figure it out how can people be like this how can he be like this Ed Kemper thinks he’s his friend and Bill told him he warned him and now it’s too late for the Holden Ford’s of the world because he’s friends with a psychopathic serial killer

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

Holden pushes himself off the couch. He slams the off button. He dissolves into a puddle of himself on the floor, face buried in his knees. He rocks back and forth back and forth back and forth to regain his sense of self. But his self is gallivanting in the stars, far away from this wicked, vile life. He sobs until the sobs turn into silent pleads for forgiveness.

When the floor starts to hurt his back, he stands. Wipes his face with his hands. Clears his throat. Takes a swig from his bottle of Jack Daniels. Finds the Valium the doctor gave him. He has refills for three months. He recommended Holden keep taking them for longer than that. Probably the rest of his life. Oh well. It doesn’t matter.

Holden shakes out four pills. Guzzles more liquor to wash them down.

He sits at the kitchen table and waits.

* * *

**V. Shattered**

The phone rings.

Just keeps ringing and ringing and ringing and ringing.

He isn’t sure it’ll ever stop.

Do phones have owners, or do they own the phone? Does that make sense?

Holden scratches his cheek and sinks further into the couch. His bed doesn’t want him there anymore. It kicked him out. Said he was tossing and turning too much. That it’s four in the morning and normal people are asleep, but he’s awake, fidgeting from nightmares and dizzy from the booze. But booze is good. It helps keep his mind off things.

It’s snowing. He can see it through his blinds. He should dust the blinds. He should get new blinds. He’s lived here for years; he can’t remember the exact number. But there aren’t any pictures on the walls. No decorations. Not a single holiday card on the fridge. He doesn’t have magnets or coasters or more than one bathroom towel, which, now that he thinks about, is revolting. He needs at least two towels. He only gets to do laundry once a week. That’s absurd. He should do laundry. He should do laundry more often.

But his dirty clothes are piled in a heap three feet from the basket. There are used tissues scattered throughout the apartment. His TV is dusty. There’s nothing in the fridge. He carries blankets everywhere to keep him warm, only to forget about them and leave them behind. His insides are hollow. He hasn’t cried in a couple hours. It’s weird, not to cry. But it’s nice not to feel that compulsion. He should run. Why hasn’t he ran yet?

Holden stares at the clock on the wall, watching the seconds tick by. The floor is comfier now and doesn’t hurt his back as much. He has pillows down here. The floor makes him feel grounded, closer to center. But center is gone from where it used to be in his chest, and it’s constantly hazy and filled with something strange he can’t quite place. His head hurts. It’s been hurting since before Ed Kemper hugged him. Ed Kemper hugged him. What a weird world.

Don’t think about that. Seriously, don’t think about that.

He listens to his inner self. He’s watching some cartoon thingy when the tears come. He spoke too soon. He wipes his cheeks, but they just keep coming and coming and coming, and, _“I gotta ask: What gave you the right to take eight ripe cunts out of the world? Some of them looked pretty good. You ever think you were depriving the rest of us? Eight hot pieces of ass. You think that’s fair?”_ He’s disgusting. He’s disgusting. He’s disgusting.

Holden jumps. There’s knocking at the door. Knocking. Then scratching and jiggling, and it happens so fast. He hides under the mound of blankets, trying to blend in with the floor, trying to balance out his breathing, but his hearts beating so loudly, so quickly, that they’ve got to hear it. They hear it. They hear him, and they’re here, and this is it. It’s finally happening. He’s going to pay for what he did. He’s disgusting, and they know it.

He can’t breathe. His chest hurts. He –

“Holden?”

A sob erupts from his esophagus like its molten lava. He covers his mouth with his hand.

“Holden? Holy shit.”

Debbie?

Stop stop stop stop stop

He can’t do it he can’t do it he can’t he can’t

Soft hands on his cheeks. Fingers in his hair. Sweet nothings in his ears. Head in lap. Sobs harder than ever before. Because someone’s here. They’re here. He isn’t alone. He isn’t alone, and maybe he won’t be alone again, and maybe there’s a reason he’s still here. He’s tried to end it all before, by noose, by pills, by razor, but none of it ever feels like this. Is this his breaking point? Several fuck ups plus several more fuck ups does equal a massive fuck up. That's just basic math.

“Shh… Shh… You’re okay.”

“Not okay,” he murmurs. “Not okay.”

“Yes, yes, you are, Holden. Just focus on breathing.”

Debbie isn’t here. No one is here.

Tears pour down his cheeks, and he chokes as he pinches the skin on his forearms. He needs help. He needs help. He needs to stand, barf a little, and go to bed. He knows this. He knows this. He quivers and shakes and throws up on the hardwood floor. Fuck. Why the fuck is he so stupid? He clenches wads of his hair in his hands and screams until they turn into sobs.

Holden takes several deep, trembling breaths, trying desperately to keep a grip on his wavering reality.

He’s okay he’s okay he’s okay he’s okay he’s dying

He’s dying.

“Breathe,” he hears. The voice is underwater. “Breathe. You have to breathe.”

Holden clutches his chest, forming a fist around a wad of his sweater. Stop stop stop.

“Fuck. Okay. I’m taking you to the hospital, alright?”

Holden’s eyes immediately widen. He closes them again within a split second and continues to blubber like he’s out of his mind. Because he is out of his mind. He’s never been more certain of anything before. He’s out of his mind.

Get a grip.

Relax.

Breathe.

None of these things come easily to him. He’s high-strung. When something becomes too much or too little, he breaks. Shatters. Starts building his insanity higher and higher until it reaches the sky.

Holden squirms as long fingers rub the small of his back.

“I got you, Holden. I got you.” The voice is firm.

Debbie wraps him up in her arms, holding him tightly and keeping him grounded in this universe. She smells like apples and sunshine. Holden breathes her in. Feels her heartbeat vibrating through his core. She’s so alive in there. Debbie’s so alive, and Holden is dead and dying.

“Just breathe, Holden. All you have to do is breathe.”

He does.

Holden breathes.

Debbie plants tiny kisses into his hair, massages his scalp, whispers about everything and nothing.

It’s almost enough.


	2. II

**VI. Demolished**

“Holden.”

He blinks. But his brain is disconnected from his body, and his limbs aren’t attached to any muscles. He feels… glued. Glued to wherever he is. It’s soft, but not squishy like a pillow. It smells like apples and sunshine, and why is it so pleasant? It’s like a flower garden on a midsummer’s day. Only it’s winter, and it’s cold and snowing and freezing and –

“Look at me,” the voice soothes.

There are fingers in his hair.

But Holden isn’t here, not really. He’s floating above his body, happier in outer space than he’s been on Earth in a long time. It’s been ages. After he ruined Roger Wade’s life, things just blurred together, and he isn’t the thought police, and wait… Is this Debbie? Does the voice belong to Debbie? She’s the only one he knows that smells and sounds like this.

“Where am I?” he rasps. He doesn’t move.

“You’re home, Holden.”

Home? He doesn’t have a home. He’s been wandering around his entire life, desperate for a place to belong, where things make sense, where he doesn’t have to hide who he is. This isn’t home. No one should ever feel this badly in their own home. Tears stream down his cheeks, and he’s crying again, and why can’t he be normal? Why can’t he be normal for once?

His heart is going to leap out of his chest.

He can feel it in there thump thump thumping around.

It’s driving him crazy.

This place – this home – is driving him crazy.

Why the fuck are hearts so fucking loud?

He slides a hand through his hair. Stop. Stop it. Calm down. There’s literally nothing happening, nothing is wrong, but trying telling his brain that. It’s just an ordinary, typical, boring whatever day of the week it is. He isn’t alone. He’s safe. He can’t breathe. He wants to be able to breathe again without knowing he’s going to throw up. He threw up earlier in one of his shoes because he couldn’t make it to the bathroom, but that was before.

Before… Before what?

He doesn’t feel right. Displaced. Like there’s a piece of him missing. He’s drowning underwater, and he can’t really feel it – not actually – when he pinches himself. Debbie stops him. His fingers are hollow and numb; his skin is tingling. He can’t. He can’t. His head hurts his body hurts he can’t handle the hurt it’s swallowing him whole eating him alive chew him up and spit him out because he’s done he’s so done he’ll resign tomorrow if it means never experiencing this again

His eyes won’t focus he’s sweating he doesn’t feel good but Debbie is there in one swift motion her hair droops into his eyes it’s soft and long and warm it’s everything it’s everything and he doesn’t understand how he’s still alive how the enormity of life can just be scrunched together in a few meaningless years on a planet he isn’t cut out to survive on his teeth chatter he can’t help it he’s wrong and gross and a grain of sand by the ocean he’s lifeless a tomb a ghost there’s so much Goddamn panic stop it has to stop Holden’s nose is stuffy but he remembers smelling chamomile tea and eucalyptus and baby powder when he stayed at Debbie’s most nights

“It hurts,” Holden breathes out, clutching at his chest. Because it does. It does hurt.

Pain is supposed to make him feel alive.

“I know, Holden. I know,” he hears. “But you have to calm down, okay? I don’t know what’s wrong, but we can figure it out. Just relax.”

Holden shakes his head. He chokes on his words. “Y-You’re gonna leave,” he whispers. “You’re gonna leave, and that’s… that’s okay.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

He doesn’t believe her. He doesn’t believe here.

Holden pushes himself up. Everything shakes. He wants to be alone. His skin is itching for privacy. He tugs a blanket over his shoulders and drags himself into his bedroom. Collapses in the unmade bed. Snot and tears pool on the pillows. Stop. He has to calm down. He has to calm down. In and out. In and out. Just like the doctor always says. Just breathe.

In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In.

Lather rinse repeat.

Another breath won’t come. Holden’s heart explodes inside his chest.

This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening.

His head spins. It’s almost hard to tell where he is.

His pulse throbs. Is this what dying feels like?

Is he dying?

Is he?

His tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth. Sweat pours off of him in waves.

When he was a brick agent, he helped bring a 19 year old kid down from a ledge. The kid was small, scrawny, nerdy. No friends. He reminded Holden of himself. Holden told him there was so much out there, so much to look forward to, so many people he can count on, so many adventures life could take him on, but he wouldn’t get to experience any of them if he chose not to stick around. The kid calmed down. Came down from off that ledge. Went to the hospital. Hung himself with bedsheets the next day.

Holden tried to hang himself in his closet with a rope when he was 17. His father almost kicked him out of the house for getting a B+ on an English exam. His mom reasoned with Father, who decided to only knock Holden around for a bit instead of lighting his bedroom on fire so Holden would leave. Holden had enough. He tried to do it. He tried really hard. But stepping off that ledge isn’t as easy as it looks, and, now, 12 years later, he wishes he had the courage to be that 19 year old kid who broke his neck with bedsheets.

“Do you really wish that, Holden?”

He flinches. His face is still buried in the sheets.

“What?” he croaks.

There’s a hand on his back, kneading at the flesh around his spine. He tenses.

“Do you wish you were dead?”

Holden inhales sharply. He doesn’t remember speaking out loud. “Sometimes.”

“I think I should take you to the hospital,” Debbie says.

He wants to go hysterical. He wants to scream and deny and say that it’ll be okay. He wants to fight. But the best he can do is shrug.

It’s not like it will make any difference.

* * *

**VII. Ruptured**

It’s cold.

He wants to slide out from under this dense suffocation dampening his brain, muting muscles and sending neurons up in flames; it’s all a charade anyway.

It’s cold.

He’s smart enough to know this will never work. He’s smart enough to know that he’ll die alone, working in a job where there’s no trust and drowning himself in the misfortunes he created for himself.

It’s cold.

He isn’t sure how much longer he can handle this. Before Kemper, before Roger Wade, before Richard Speck, before Wendy, before Bill, before Debbie, he was on a trajectory toward a numb existence. Now, in the wake of everything, he wishes for that life again.

It’s cold.

He bundles illusion around him like a quilt. He can live like this. He can function like a normal human adult. Debbie doesn’t seem to think so, but fuck her. Fuck her. Fuck them. Fuck everyone. Fuck thinking and breathing and blinking because all he ever does is think and breathe and blink, and it’s never gotten him anywhere.

It’s cold.

He crashes everywhere, hard and fast and all at once. There’s so much. It’s too much. He cringes and flinches and tells himself that it’s fine, that he can make it, that he can quit his job and work at a book store and live a quiet existence not making waves. He remembers bursting outside his apartment not long after ending things with Debbie, screaming until they turned into sobs. He sank against the cold wall with tears streaming down his cheeks and an anchor pressed against his heart. He hiccups and runs his hands through his hair and just the brief, slight sound of fingertips scratching his scalp is enough to make him swallow the vomit rising from his gut.

It’s cold.

He wants the earth to crash into the moon so he doesn’t have to deal with this anymore. He can’t handle being in his body for another Goddamn second. He wants to hurdle himself at the sun. He wants to jump off the roof of his apartment building and let his flesh scatter on the concrete like raindrops. He wants to gut his arm like a pumpkin, picking and plucking and poking his arteries and veins until there’s nothing left but a hollow shell.

It’s cold.

He clenches his jaw so hard he nearly breaks his teeth. He glues himself together with pills, alcohol, self-destruction, and, then, work. He mashes himself into a tiny, caged corner of his mind, only letting himself out to explore when no one ever has a chance of looking. He doesn’t talk unless he needs to. He doesn’t eat or drink or sleep unless it’s necessary, which, thankfully, it isn’t. He doesn’t do anything because he can’t do anything because doing anything means doing something, and he doesn’t have the energy to deal with it.

It’s cold.

He stares out into the bleak city streets darkened with winter snow. A cigarette dangles from his lips. He doesn’t smoke. But something about the nicotine calms him. He lets it soak into his bones like a warm blanket fresh from the dryer. He should go inside. It’s almost midnight, and he should shower and get ready for bed. He has to work tomorrow. But he doesn’t think he’ll get that far. The idea of going to work is as frightening as the job itself.

It’s cold.

The night hurts so bad that it crawls inside his chest and won’t let go.

It’s cold.

His arms itch, and his skin shakes, and he wants to go home.

It’s cold.

He wants to go home.

It’s cold.

He wants to tear off his skin and bury it underground until springtime comes.

It’s cold.

The pain rips at his chest and strangles his lungs, and he can’t breathe from crying.

It’s cold.

He wonders who taught him how to love.

It’s cold.

The sky is black, and the stars are far away, and he wants to be held.

It’s cold.

He knows he doesn’t deserve it.

It’s cold.

He’s broken and shattered, and no one will ever love him.

It’s cold.

He doesn’t blame anyone. He doesn’t blame Mom or Father or Debbie or Bill or anyone else. He hates himself. He did this to himself.

It’s cold.

Tears pour from his body. He lets the heartbreak, the sorrow, settle in, but only for a minute. There’s no time for that.

It’s cold.

He takes off his coat. Snowy wind pelts against his exposed skin. He rolls his shirtsleeves up past his elbows.

It’s cold.

He takes out his pocketknife. He slashes open his arms like he’s writing with a ballpoint pen, carving his pathetic story from A to Z on broken skin.

It’s cold.

Unshed tears and stale memories like a ship in a bottle echo through his ears.

It’s cold.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

It’s cold.

He’s alone, breathing in the frigid air with his heart ruptured, spilling all over the ground.

It’s cold.

Later on, when the icy snow clings to the cracked pavement, he sheds his skin and buries himself until springtime comes.

* * *

**VIII. Severed**

He doesn’t expect to wake up.

Doesn’t want to, either.

In a land filled with misery lies Holden Ford in his ex-girlfriend’s arms. From his perch above this mess, somewhere achingly far away yet still too close, Fake Holden watches Debbie apply pressure to his wounds. It isn’t working, and Fake Holden smiles as Real Holden’s eyes roll back into his head. Real Holden goes limp and keeps oozing blood. Debbie leaves, hopefully for good, but then she comes back, Real Holden’s blood smeared on her cheeks.

Fake Holden feels Real Holden’s heartbeat slug along at an eerily, beautifully slow pace. Fake Holden feels Real Holden’s pulse beat minutely in his chest. Fake Holden feels Real Holden’s heart open up for the first time since the last time he tried this. They’ve done this before, but with pills or a noose. Neither of them wanted to leave a mess.

But Real Holden doesn’t care about anyone finding him because he’s given up, and Fake Holden doesn’t give a shit because no one cares anyway. He’d much rather float up here in space.

Fake Holden notes that Real Holden’s eyes are fluttering again, and there’s this thing that happens. They’re divided. Not them, but him. Just Holden. And when Just Holden – Real and/or Fake – cracks open broken orbs, he can see Debbie with petrified worried splattered across her face. Just Holden wishes he could finish the job, but he’s freezing, and nothing makes sense.

Debbie is here she found him like this he doesn’t know why she’s even here he didn’t want her to find him he wants Debbie to leave him alone he wants to die because Holden wants Holden to die how could someone be so stupid and let him live he doesn’t deserve life or happiness or even content bliss he doesn’t deserve to have anything much less interacting with the outside world when he’d much rather be in a tomb swallowed by nothingness.

He doesn’t want to wake up he doesn’t want to be here he wants to die doesn’t understand why this keeps happening why he keeps fucking screwing up he can’t even fucking kill himself right. Once when he was thirteen he tried to hang himself with his belt un his closet because everything was too loud he was nobody he didn’t have friends his parents didn’t want him but the belt snapped and he was too scared to try it again for a long long time.

Just Holden lunges over, the impulse of a mad man driving him forward. He tries to grab the pocketknife laying haphazardly on the ground.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Holden?” Debbie screams, and Just Holden – Just Holden – almost cries. “What… Why?”

He doesn’t see where the knife goes next. Just feels Debbie’s rage and concern and really hates it.

Just Holden lets his eyes close in defeat. An ambulance arrives. Paramedics, two or three or four of them, storm to the roof of his building. Whirlwind. Chaos. Just Holden hides deep in his pocket of oblivion, where it’s warm and free from noise. He doesn’t warrant this. This isn’t a big deal. He failed. He thought he cut deep enough, but he didn’t, and now he has to wait to try again. Wait until he isn’t under such constant scrutiny. He’s been down this road before. Psych ward. Therapy. Medications. Cognitive and behavioral exercise. Learning to love himself.

Blah blah blah. It’s all bullshit anyway.

“Hang in there, Holden,” Debbie says.

Holden’s hand is still wrapped in Debbie’s.

He almost tears it away, but what the fuck? Who cares?

Holden doesn’t. Holden doesn’t care.

* * *

**IX. Dismantled**

He’s here overnight for a physical evaluation getting admitted upstairs 72 hour psychiatric hold suicide watch nurses check on him every 10 minutes pester him ask him if he needs anything but he can’t tell them he wants to die because then he’ll never get out of here he wants to get out of here so he can try again do it better maybe apologize to Debbie for freaking her out he doesn’t know yet is alarmed by the fact that he – Holden Ford – doesn’t know doesn’t have a game plan is going along with the bullshit because he’s been through it before.

“Hey, Holden,” Debbie announces as he knocks softly on the door. She has bloodstains on her blouse and skirt and streaked across her cheeks.

Almost feels bad almost feels bad about Debbie finding him like this seeing him like this but feels so agonizingly numb it makes him crazy.

“Can I sit down?”

Moments pass. “Sure,” Holden mumbles. He’s so tired.

Debbie rubs the back of her neck.

Why is Debbie even here?

“They treating you okay?” she asks. Her voice grates Holden’s ears.

What the fuck?

What the actual fuck?

This is absurd. This is pathetic. Doesn’t Debbie know Holden is trash? And Holden has no idea why he feels this urge – this overwhelming urge – to cry, to reach out for Debbie’s hand, to explain why he did it, to say he’s sorry, to beg for forgiveness, to swear he’ll never do it again, to apologize for scaring her, for trying to end it because it’s too much. He can’t do it. He has to fight. He has to fight to make it out alive so he can try again.

“Fine,” he murmurs.

Holden shivers. He’s pissed. Irritated. Confused. Anxious. His heart bleeds into his stomach. His intestines spill onto the floor. His arteries are shreds of confetti lost in an unending parade. He wants to throw up. Scream. Drown.

“Debbie,” he chokes out. “Leave.”

“Why?”

“Just go.”

“Holden, I don’t understand. I just got here. What’s –”

“Go!” He manages to raise his voice, but his inflection is strained and quiet. “Go away.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Why not?” he asks pathetically.

“Because you need help, Holden.”

He scoffs. “I don’t need help, and I especially don’t need your help. We’re broken up, remember? So… let’s stay that way.”

It slips out like gravy on to a warm country biscuit. He kicks himself internally. Wants to pull his IV from his veins and make a break for the nearest ledge.

“Hey,” he hears. “It’s alright. You don’t have to talk about it right now. Just focus on getting better.”

“I don’t want to get better,” he says quietly, fiddling with his hospital bracelet, doing whatever he can to not look at Debbie.

Debbie sighs. “I know you don’t. But you have to try.”

“Why? What’s the point? What makes you think I won’t try again the second I get out of here?”

“I have faith you won’t,” Debbie says.

Holden rolls his eyes. “Faith? That’s what you’re counting on?”

“You’re still here, Holden.”

And he doesn’t know what happens or why, but a switch ignites inside him. He feels scared. He feels crazy. He feels out of his fucking mind.

“Get me out of here,” he says carefully.

“You’re on suicide watch.”

“So what?”

“So you can’t leave,” Debbie points out. “You’re sick. You need help. And, contrary to what you might think, you’re going to be okay. I’ll do whatever I can to help you through this.”

Holden lets out a dangerously shaky breath he doesn’t remember inhaling.

Time passes. He fidgets, popping his knuckles over and over again. The movement singes his broken skin, but the sensation is blissful. It means he feels something, which means whatever his doctor keeps sticking in his IV port when he panics is wearing off again.

Debbie sits in the chair by his bed. Holden waits for the doctor remove the tube from his penis because, apparently, he decided that Holden, while unstable, is not invalid.

“We need a game plan,” Debbie says.

“What?”

“We need to figure out what we’re going to do when you get out of here.”

“We don’t have to figure anything out, Debbie,” Holden says. “This is my mess. I’ll clean it up myself.”

“Yeah, because that worked so great for you last time.”

Holden bites his bottom lip. “I don’t want you here.”

Debbie sits up straighter. “Too bad.”

“So you’re just going to ignore my requests?”

“I’ll take your requests into consideration once you feel a little better.”

A flash of bitterness sweeps through his core like a quick Florida storm, but he can’t hold onto that bitterness for long. A thunderclap of sadness, of uncertainty, of terror punches him in the gut, and the floodgates open. It’s ugly and horrible, and there’s nothing subtle about it. He wishes it were possible to drown himself in tears. His heart spills into his belly, poisoning his veins and muscles and neurons, and he just wants all of this to stop. He’s tired of feeling way too much so quickly in the blink of an eye. He can’t he can’t he can’t he –

“Please go away…” he cries. “Please…”

But Debbie doesn’t.

She sits on his bed instead.

And wraps her arms tightly around him.

Debbie engulfs him in a strong, solid embrace. Rocks him back and forth. Rubs his sides with enough pressure that Holden doesn’t choke on unaltered fear. But this is fear. It’s real and raw and dirty. Holden hides his face in her blouse, breathes in the scent of sunshine and apples. Feels Debbie’s heartbeat beneath his palm.

“I’m not going to abandon you, Holden,” she whispers.

Holden nods against her skin. “Okay. Okay.”

* * *

**X. Cracked**

“You look like shit.”

Holden’s eyes pop open, and he licks his dry lips. Through hazy vision, he makes out the silhouette of his partner – or is it formal partner by now? Bill takes a seat in the chair beside his bed and crosses his legs.

“Do you have any Chapstick?”

Bill pulls out a tube of cherry Chapstick and hands it over to him. Holden’s cuffed to a bed, but he has some range of motion. The ointment feels good. It’s the first thing that’s felt genuinely good in a long time.

“Have you eaten?” Bill asks.

Holden immediately shakes his head. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Do what?”

“Treat me like I’m a kid, Bill.”

Bill’s stare never wavers. “You tried to kill yourself, kid.”

“Why do you care?”

“Are you shitting me?”

Holden shrugs and then shakes his head.

“I care because you’re my friend. You’re a moron who gets way too invested in just about everything, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care about you.”

“But Kemper –”

“Uh uh. You are hereby banned from mentioning that name ever again.”

“But the study is still –”

“Holden,” Bill starts. “There is a lot more at stake here than just the study. Your health, for starters. I know you’re worried about how this will reflect on you, and I just wanted to put your mind at ease. There’s still a place for you in the BSU. When you’re ready. When you’re healthy.”

He scoffs. “Pssh. Yeah right. Like Wendy or Shepard ever want to see me again.”

Bill sighs. “They want you to get better.”

“Why? So they can stop holding their breath around my ‘atrocious behavior?’”

“No, Holden. Because you’re a human being just like them. We don’t want you to be sick.”

“I’m not sick. Why does everyone keep saying that?” Holden scrubs his hands down his stubbly cheeks. Gross. He hates beards. Why hasn’t he shaved? “I wanna go home.”

“Yeah, well maybe you can once you eat and stop giving everyone shit for trying to help you.”

“They’ll never let me out of this place. I’m too fucked up.”

Bill rolls his eyes. “No such thing.”

“There’s no such thing as too fucked up?” he asks incredulously. “I hate to be the one to break it to you, Bill, but I ruined Roger Wade’s life, I made Kemper think I was his friend, I broke up with my girlfriend because I was too self-absorbed to see what I had, I took things too seriously, I didn’t listen to you, I –”

“Save it, Holden. I don’t want to be a part of your pity party.”

“Pity party?” he whispers to himself. “Right. My apologies.”

He wishes… He wishes… He wishes he could –

“I can hear you thinking from here, kid,” Bill states. “You need to get out of your head.”

Holden nods. He’s been told that his entire life. Open up and view the world through an unfiltered lens. He’d be surprised by what he learned about the human race that way. Not everything is so textbook. X doesn’t always equal Y. North is only north because we make it that way. Bullshit like that. But things are textbook. X equals Y. North is north because of the gravitational pull that lets people know it is, indeed, fucking north. He’s so tired of hearing what he should be. How he should behave. How he should talk to other people, make eye contact, stop being weird, sit up straight, never leave the house without a crisp, clean shirt.

It’s bullshit. It’s all bullshit.

“You’re going to stay with me, Nancy, and Brian once you get out of here,” Bill says. “No complaints. No questions asked.”

“I don’t need your pity,” Holden says bluntly.

“Believe me, I don’t want to give you any pity, Holden. I’m helping a friend. That’s it.”

“That’s it?”

Bill nods. “Yep. Maybe we can learn a thing or two along the way.”

Holden squirms in the hospital bed. His head hurts. He’s sleepy. Something about Bill being here, just being here even while mildly scolding him, is… nice. “Maybe,” he slurs.

“Get some sleep, kid,” Bill says softly. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”


End file.
